SECRET OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

“I know you’re still here, Quentin,” Johanna said. Her voice had calmed, becoming that of the impersonal physician once more. Quentin nearly hated her for that self-possession.

He was consumed by darker compulsions.

Obsessed.

“I am getting out now,” she said.

He could almost see her rising naked from the water. Lifting one long leg and then the other, water streaming over her soft, fair skin. Breasts glistening, each erect nipple crowned by clinging drops. Belly slightly rounded, full hips made to cradle a man’s body, strong thighs with a secret thatch of brown curls between.

Quentin thrust his fingers into the bedcover, grabbing fistfuls of quilted cloth.

Johanna walked out from behind the screen. She didn’t cower or try to cover herself, though she must have seen at once that he hadn’t averted his gaze. She stood tall and defiant, her arms at her sides, only the rapid rise and fall of her breasts revealing her emotion.

“Is this what you wished to see?” she asked. “Look, then.”

Oblivious to shame, Quentin complied. He devoured her with his eyes. Her face was flushed, as he’d imagined it; her hair fell in wanton disarray about her shoulders, an errant lock trailing over one full breast.

Her breasts were magnificent. Firm, lush, begging to be suckled. Her shoulders were broad enough to support them in perfect proportion. Her waist narrowed beneath them, flaring out into generous hips. She held her legs close together, but he glimpsed the blush of her sex behind the screen of curls.

And he smelled her. That body, such fertile ground for a man’s seed, revealed her true desires, the ones she dared not show with her fearless blue gaze.

Arousal. Moisture that gathered and spilled over to ease a man’s passage, perfume surely even a human male could scent.

His own body was more than ready. He ached. He throbbed. Satiation was only moments away. He could seize her now and she would hardly resist. On the floor, against the wall; lying beneath him or on her knees, again and again until he’d had enough…

He rose. He fumbled for the buttons of his trousers. She watched and didn’t move, silently pleading with him to take her. Take her.

One step. Another. He dragged his gaze from her body to her face. Her eyes.

Johanna’s eyes. Waiting for him to betray her trust.

No.

His feet sealed to the floor. His muscles spasmed. He managed to make them function at last, moving him back. Away from Johanna, one inch at a time, toward the door.

Howling. He heard howling, from somewhere in the center of his being. The rage of a thwarted monster. If Johanna spoke, he couldn’t hear her. By touch alone he found the doorknob and turned it. The howling pursued him all the way back to his room.

Johanna’s legs buckled. She dropped to her knees on the floor, giving her trembling muscles a chance to recover. Never in her life had she felt so weak, or so confused.

Not afraid. That was the remarkable thing. She’d seen as soon as she stepped out from behind the screen what Quentin intended.

But Quentin would never commit rape. That certainty helped her to stand still and wait for Quentin to realize it himself.

Not before she had been driven nearly to the very edge of her faith and reason. Not before she’d realized that some part of her almost wished he had followed through with the impulses that ruled him.

Gott in Himmel. Self-disgust tightened her throat. She pushed herself to her feet and went to the door. The hallway was quiet and dark. Her door had a lock, like all the rooms in the house, but she hadn’t felt the need to use it since taking up residence here.

If she turned the key now, would it be to protect herself from Quentin, or impose an artificial defense against her own emotions? She left the door unlocked and stumbled to the bed, feeling for her dressing gown. She had to concentrate to get the sleeves over her arms and the sash tied about her waist. By the time that simple task was finished, her sense was restored.

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